


This is the Exact Opposite of a Perfect Romantic Scenario, Love

by Anonymous



Series: O Fortuna [2]
Category: Disney Duck Universe, DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bold of you to assume I can write, Cousin Incest, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dissociation, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Drug Addiction, Referenced Gambling Addiction, Suicide Attempt, fear of relapse, post-House of the Lucky Gander!, tags will update as the fic updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 22:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20433830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A duck grapples with his dreams, and a gander wrestles with his luck.





	1. I'm Out Of Answers

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome. Read the tags, please. This is a sequel to 39 and makes way more sense if you read that one first. The title for this fic was inspired by a comment left on 39, and is used with permission.  
Rated E for sexual material. Other sensitive material: past drug addiction, mentioned suicidal behavior/self harm, references to death.
> 
> (Please note that there is depicted alcohol abuse, but it's not discussed until later on in the fic.)

The houseboat was gently rocking. This didn’t help Donald’s nausea. It took him a beer or two to feel secure.

He needed something to take the edge off. When he was trying to relax, all he could think about was how Gladstone looked more worn down. It was getting harder and harder to write this off- it made sense when he was fighting a luck demon, or after _the thing that they didn't talk about, _but trying to explain away how lonely the gander looked was seeming more and more wrong. Perverse, even.

Or had he always been like that? Maybe, if Donald had paid attention in the House of the Lucky Fortune, he would have noticed that his cousin hadn’t looked after himself all that well. He had forgotten to preen, forgotten to eat, and had carried himself with more tension and anxiousness than the luckiest duck on earth had any right to. True, being trapped by a spirit of chance and fortune wasn’t the _ best _ thing for one’s mental health, but after Gladstone left, things still hadn’t changed, and it wasn't like him to just visit Duckburg on anything other than a whim.

As he poured himself a beer (he hated drinking it from the can), he thought, and with a familiar nausea building in his stomach, he noted that he couldn’t really remember when Gladstone _ didn’t _seem like this.

His phone rang. Seeing it was Gladstone, he answered it without hesitation.

“What’s wrong?”

_ “Nothing’s wrong, D-money, I just wanted to thank you.” _

“Are you sure you're feeling all right?”

He didn't complain about Donald's remark, which was an indicator that he was probably not feeling all right. “You_ didn’t have to pick me up from the airport, you know.” _

Donald smiled. “You don’t have to thank me, man. Of course I would’ve.”

_ “How’s Uncle Scrooge treating you?” _

“Ah, pretty well. I’m in the houseboat. He and the kids are going on an adventure tomorrow.”

_ “Nice! Where to?” _

Donald groaned. “They _ were _going to go to the dimension of Ai Eba, where spirits live but the actual ground has been untouched for five thousand centuries.”

_ “...were?” _

“Well, do you really trust Dewey to not steal the Treasure of Duilich? Now they’re going to look for a knife that killed Caesar. Sounds fun, but I’m not really the adventuring _ type, _you know, since…”

_ “That’s okay. You’re fine as is, Don.” _

“‘Sides, I’ve got to fix the houseboat up a bit more. A certain someone decided it’d be a good idea to make a deal with the fae, and he put up some siding from the houseboat as the colla…” Donald stumbled over the words, taking a moment to state it again. Gladstone, understanding as ever, gave him his time. “Col-lat-er-al! Collateral.”

He peeked out the window. Siding was still crumbling off of the side and disappearing before it hit the water’s surface, aided by a bodiless hand and arm made of pure shadow.

_ “Was it Greener Pastures?” _

“Yeah, it was. Louie’s a little devil sometimes. It’s not a great birthday surprise to wake up to one of the Fair Folk ripping off the side of your home.”

_ “Wait a second.” _ The unmistakable sound of typing at a keyboard sounded.

"What are you doing?"

_"Getting you cash. I'm guessing you need it."_

“I thought you hate work! Doesn’t entering in for gift cards count?”

_ “I don’t just hate it, I despise and condemn all forms of work,” _ said Gladstone with dignity, _ “and yes, it counts.” _

“Then don’t do it.”

_ “I’m not that big of an asshole, man.” _ Click. _ “Guess who’s the proud owner of a transferable gift card at RenovGreat that’s exactly enough to cover damages to a houseboat?” _

Donald smiled, feeling his face grow warm. “You're kind of insufferable, you know that?”

_ “What’s the point of having the best luck in the world if you don’t use it? Besides, it's your birthday. Wouldn’t want you to have your houseboat, you know…” _Gladstone imitated the sound of an explosion.

“I’ve fixed it plenty of times.” He shrugged, quacking in shock when he dropped his phone. “Shit.” He salvaged it. “You all right, Gladstone?”

_ “You dropped the phone, not kicked me in the head.” _

“Right. Right. I’m a disaster duck.”

_ “If you have to know, dear Donald, you’re not a disaster duck. I think you’re a knockout as is.” _

“Oh, shucks.” Wanting another beer, he got up and poured himself another glass.

Most unfortunately, Gladstone heard the pouring. _ “If it’s an alcohol-” _ Pause. _ “A drink-” _

_ “An _alcohol? A single alcohol?” He couldn't stop himself from giggling as he tossed the can in the recycling bag.

_ “You’re mean, you know what I wanna say. Don’t drink too much. From what I’ve heard from Feather Mallard, D-money, hangovers aren’t what I’d call fun and constructive.” _

Donald sat back down at the kitchen table. “Today’s just a really long day, you know?”

_ “I know. I mean, I get it, but don’t overdo it.” _

“Right.”

_ “If you have to cut back, just ask me for help, all right? I’ve done it before. Granted, it was something different, but still..” _

“Thanks, but I’m fine.”

_ “I know it’s easier said, but still… at least take care of yourself? Please?” _ His tone got unusually soft, no humor left, and then jerked up back to cheerfulness. _ “Hey, the food's at my room now, so I'm probably gonna-"  
_

"Actually, I was wondering- do you think you'd want to hang out tomorrow? Might as well live it up while you're in town."

_"That'd be great."_

“Night, Gladstone. Thanks for the gift card.”

_ “Night. Happy birthday again, Don." _

The line went dead in his hands.

He sighed, taking a sip of his beer and turning on the TV. It wasn’t much, but it was something to pay attention to as he drank, and he didn't have the mental energy to take a tally of what needed to be fixed. By the end of the documentary, he had written down some facts about King Midas that he wanted to tell his nephews when he saw them again.

As he got ready for bed and the fae stopped collecting various parts of his home, he couldn’t stop thinking of Gladstone. Did his hand on his always feel like that? he asked himself. Then he smiled and shook his head. Gladstone had always had that easy charm to him, and he had never fallen for it before.

_ You’re getting sentimental, _he told himself as he changed into pajamas.

Well, nothing wrong with that.

Donald knew by concept that what he felt now wasn’t just nostalgia or admiration. Trying to pin these feelings down to anything would end poorly, and really he just wanted to go to sleep and face the day anew.

Once he was done brushing his beak and preening his headfeathers, he made his way to his bedroom, getting into his hammock. Today had been a long, stressful day, but it was loads of fun in some ways, and going to McAlan’s with Gladstone wasn’t half bad either.

True, he could’ve just left him to find a taxi, and the luckiest duck on earth surely would’ve found a way to get to his hotel. Despite that, seeing him was nice. And he looked lovely, too, if Donald had to admit it, with the lights of Duckburg gently lighting up his face as he looked around. He only saw glimpses, his eyes on the road, but even his words conveyed some sense of wonder and nostalgia.

Thinking about it certainly didn’t _ worry _him. Donald would insist that his pulse certainly didn’t quicken a bit as he thought about Gladstone.

He was just thinking of nostalgia. He was thirty-two now. In Donald’s opinion, it made sense that he’d think back to their wild 20s, when they chatted late into the evening at pubs. (At least, Gladstone chatted, generally being his special brand of ‘just the worst’ and ‘just charming and sweet enough’. Donald mostly listened and stole popcorn shrimp off his plate.) It made sense that he’d linger on those moments when they let their hands linger for a bit longer than they had any right to, or when a stranger asked if they were dating.

Donald attributed the little flutter he felt in his stomach to disgust, and not a bizarre kind of envy. How could he envy somebody seeing them the way that made Donald’s heart beat a little faster?

It took him a few tries to unlock his lockbox, but once he did, he took out a bottle of lube. Squirting its contents onto his hand, he tucked the bottle safely away before busying himself under the blankets. He got the sensation that he'd hate himself for this in the morning, but enough could be done between now and sunrise, and enough blame could be put on the hangover.

Besides, there was no reason to feel bad. Gladstone wasn’t the reason why he was doing this. Could not be. Would not be. It was just a coincidence he ended up here, reaching down with one hand and covering his beak with the other.

A strange mix of disgust and pleasure rocked him. To his skin, his own touch felt unbearably warm, with too much friction for comfort, and the lube felt quite cold. More technical than sensual, really.

Drunk, exhausted, and definitely not lovesick, he couldn't help but wonder. Would Gladstone let his hands linger as he caressed him, or would he be rough?

He stopped for a moment, screwing his eyes shut and chasing that thought from his mind.

Not like it was worth thinking about it. Gladstone was different, come to think of it. He wouldn't be like the others Donald had been with. Would he luck his way into undoing him, or would he simply _ know? _ (With his luck, he would come apart as easy as picking a lock, surely. There'd be no push-pull of sensation and detachment, they'd just _ be.) _

He chased that thought from his mind, too.

Donald continued, mechanical and patterned, rocking his hips as best he could and trying hard to imagine something, anything but _that_. In the end, though, it didn't work. It couldn't feel right if he didn't feel entirely comfortable, and he couldn't manage to summon the warmth that he felt only a few hours ago, not without-

It had gotten late, and he had to admit that it was a good time to call it quits. He had gotten close enough this time, and he was tired enough to fall asleep, his leg cramping and his back painfully tense.

Guilt ate at him as he lay in bed, but he didn’t have the energy to think too much about it. Besides, there was tomorrow to look forward to.


	2. Io, Tyche!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donald considers the next step, and Gladstone finds an impostor, a message, and a lost treasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Fortuna and Liu Hai make an appearance (kind of?), again certifying my track record of mashing together canons as I please. For those of you who might not have heard of her in Disney duck lore, she's a luck goddess in some Italian comics. More info at the end.  
Warning: this chapter's second half has heavy themes of gambling addiction, trauma, and dissociation. Please read with caution if you're sensitive to these themes.

When Donald was fourteen, Della read a page of his journal.

“Give that _ back _to me, Dumbella!”

“What’s even _ in _here? Some emo poetry?” She opened it up and glanced at it before her eyes widened.

Donald could not stop her, but he needn’t have bothered. She immediately shut the book upon realizing what was in it.

“Don’t tell Uncle Scrooge,” he managed to say. “Please, just _ don’t.” _

“I won’t, Donny, I promise-”

“He’ll be so, so mad. You know how he is.”

“I doubt he’ll be mad, but if it makes you feel any better, I swear.” She obviously could not comprehend what was on the page; it looked like her thoughts were stuck in a loop. Donald couldn’t blame her.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting her to say. She was _ Della, _ after all. She wasn’t going to rip it up and shout _ Gladstone? Really?! Why Gladstone?! _

“Look, I don’t… I'm sorry for reading through your things. It’s not weird, you know, to like boys, either. I like girls, you know.”

“Della, thanks, but I know. The problem is that it’s not just any boy, it’s that-”

“That he’s our cousin. And Gladstone at that."

_ “Yeah. _That’s strange.”

“I’m not gonna lie to you, _that's_ really, really weird,” agreed Della. Donald should have felt mad, or sad, but instead he just felt relief swell up in his heart. Someone agreed with him.

If it was _ relief, _though, then he shouldn’t have been crying.

“Oh, don’t cry, Donny- tell you what-” He felt something warm around him; the blanket on the bed was gone off somewhere. “I’ll tell you what. How about I make us some hot cocoa, we put on a movie, we steal the Flame of Flaversham and make some s’mores. We just have some fun, okay?”

Donald sniffled a bit. He hated this. He hated her knowing. At the same time… he was glad that she knew.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s.”

They had gotten through half a packet of graham crackers and horribly burned at least three marshmallows when Della sighed in the way that let Donald know she was preparing a speech. He knew her well enough, after all, to know when she wanted to say something important.

“You know,” she said matter-of-factly, “whether or not this goes on, whatever happens, it’ll be all right.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. We’re Ducks. More importantly, we’re _ us, _ and we can make everything okay in the end. It can’t _ help _but be all right.” 

* * *

Donald woke up with a passing memory of his dream. He thought it a sign for sure, having happened on his birthday- on _ their _birthday- but he didn’t much like what it was that Della was giving a sign about.

_ Even after you’re gone, sis, you fuck me up. God, I miss you. _

He wiped his face of tears- a few had come up- and then began to think about how Gladstone had come over and gone to the Duckburg Plaza, about how they had plans for the next day, and…

Well, something else. But he couldn’t think about it. He was just a kid then, after all, and it wasn’t worth bringing up, even if he did remember something that he tried not to think about for a while. He dragged himself out of bed, brushed his teeth, and looked for his phone.

Next order of business, now- the kids were still out adventuring with Uncle Scrooge. He called them as soon as he found his phone. After listening to Huey’s excited rambling about the treasure they were looking for, Dewey’s wildly exaggerated tellings of beating a minor river spirit, and Louie explaining how perfect the Tuscan countryside was for a lazy afternoon nap, Scrooge reassured him that everything was going well. 

_ “Really, lad, no reason to worry. Though…” _ He lowered his voice. _ “I cannae believe that the no-good layabout’s back in Duckburg so late! He could have at least come to your birthday!” _

Every year, it felt less like his birthday, but no mind. “Uncle Scrooge, he did try..”

_ “Not enough. Agh, I love him, but he can be so selfish sometimes.” _ That was true. _ “Look, my boy, we’re growing desperate, and we’re consulting Venus at the moment for help, so I’ll have to let you go. Bye, now! Take care!” _

The line went dead.

The kids would be all right; the man had a good head on his shoulders, as much as Donald hated to admit it. After everything that had happened with Della, it hurt, but there came a time when one had to set away anger and try to reach an understanding. The triplets deserved to know their uncle Scrooge.

And he had no right to complicate things with their Uncle Gladstone, Donald reminded himself as he stepped in the shower. He set the water a touch too cold before stepping in.

_ He’ll think differently of you forever, _ he thought as he shut his eyes, feeling the harshness like ice on his feathers. _ Forever forever forever. Your reckless days are over, Donald- you’re 32 and still, you’ve got nothing to show for it. _

He had grown up, now. He was well into his thirties. Things really should have made sense.

_ Some things don’t, _ he thought, working soap into his feathers. _ Some things don’t make sense, and that’s okay. _

One day, he’d come clean about this. 

But that day sure as hell wasn’t today, and he wouldn’t think about what happened if he could help it. For now, he just needed to finish getting ready. The rest would fall into place; it could not help but be all right if he just kept his mouth shut.

* * *

_ “Come here and try your luck!” _ crowed the slot machine that Gladstone was slipping his coins into. _ “Come here and try your-” _

Four quarters. That was good enough. Granted, the coin-slots were always pretty depressing, but Gladstone really didn’t feel like going back to his room in the Duckburg Plaza Hotel. The night was still young- it was midnight, after all. He usually went to bed later.

_ Tomorrow’s a big day, _ said a voice in his head. _ Don’t you wanna go see Donald? _

He did. Honest, he did. It was just that between his bad luck and how Donald was feeling, he needed an easy rush. Some sense of having completed _ something _was good enough, and this was the easiest way.

_ You helped him, though. You gave him a wonderful gift, one that he’s been- _

_ No matter. I just need to stop thinking about him. _

The mascot for this machine was a slim, sleek-feathered duck. She wore a light green dress with clovers all over it, a crown of card-suits on her head. Was that supposed to be Fortuna? He almost laughed; the goddess of luck certainly did _ not _dress like that. He had seen her, faced her wrath enough, and gotten enough blessings to know.

Well, no matter. He pulled the lever, and like pieces of a puzzle or atoms of belladonna, they fell perfectly into place. Lattice. Rows and columns. Seven-seven-seven, diamond-diamond-diamond, cherry-cherry-cherry. Struck gold. Play it now, play fast, play fair

and by God it was all so hollow.

_ “The 250 dollar jackpot’s all yours!” _ cooed machine-Fortuna, in a voice too sweet and cloying to be hers. _ “Play again?” _

Again, again, again. He’d be here until the night grew young and people began to ask questions, and he’d go to his room with nothing having changed in any real way.

Why didn’t that feel comforting anymore?

Gladstone should have felt at home among these lights. He had practically grown up in casinos. He’d eat at the buffet and read the brochures over and over as his mother went inside, using the famous Gander luck to win big. 

Sure, his mother's luck was flawed. It would leave _her_ if she made bad decisions, which was why they always lost everything just before she won the jackpot. She always spent enough to have the manager of the place shake her head and comp them a room and meal cards. His mother had a skill for turning a ten to a thousand to nothing.

But Gladstone’s luck was different. If he wanted to, he could keep on going forever, and when he realized that, the carnival of lights surrounding him became a lifeline. A way to provide. And sure, it wasn’t adventuring or business or hard work, but it was _ his, _ it was something all his own, and _ damn it, _ why did it feel so wrong? It couldn't just have been because of the House of the Lucky Fortune- Liu Hai was gone, would never come back, he'd never be used for his luck again and he didn't have to worry anymore.

Why did he keep on worrying?

Seven-seven-seven-

_ “Royal flush, house wins." _

House always wins. The sounds, the lights… it was all like it was back in the other place, the one he had left behind so long ago. 

_ “Double my bet and hit-” _

_ “That’s twenty-three. Off by two.” _

“Bad fortune, I’m afraid, Gander,” he heard someone say, and he turned around only to hear-

_ “The 100 dollar jackpot’s all yours!” _said his slot machine.

Gladstone opened his eyes. 

The LEDs were giving him a headache, but unfortunately for him, everything lined up. He had won big again, as the garish blues and greens wouldn’t stop shouting at him, and machine-Fortuna was winking at him.

Thank God. He wasn’t back there again. He was in there for too long, he had no intention of ever returning.

How long had he been in the House of the Lucky Fortune, anyways? Enough to become a husk of his former self. Granted, not that everything needed much help to make him a husk- a while ago, he had an awful habit that took a lot of work to kick, and even now he wasn’t sure if he could resist if he happened his way across it again. But he had been in that awful place long enough to miss everyone, and long enough for him to grow cold against all of this.

_ “Come on, now, you’re on a hot streak!” _cooed machine-Fortuna.

He couldn’t help it. He upped his bet, took a step forward…

He felt a pang of loneliness in his chest. It settled in his heart; now he understood his discomfort. The coins turned cold in his hands.

Logically, it was obvious that he was _ not _ in the House of the Lucky Fortune. He was in Duckburg, for one thing, safely away. Those were real people around him, most notably vaguely stressed employees and one man in a blue shirt who looked like he wanted to punch Gladstone in the gut for winning so easy. And Donald was sending him texts like _ Is 2:00 fine? _ and _ I was thinking that we go to the theatre. It’s cheaper earlier. _If he had just been able to understand that, then perhaps it wouldn’t have happened.

Fear, however, worked faster than peace, especially in someone as terrified and world-worn as Gladstone. And really, a lot was the same anyways. If someone was tired and stressed out and secretly scared, it made sense that someone would mistake the slots bar of the Greater Calisota Casino for The House of the Lucky Fortune.

The floor was all the same- busy patterns to keep your eyes on the machines. The lights… well, every single machine was designed to bring your eyes to it, you didn’t really have a choice. People said the same thing- _try your luck, Mr. Gander! Try your luck!- _and their eyes were all glazed over and tired. And at the end of the day, he just felt so tired being here, but he couldn’t manage to be anywhere else.

But Donald had saved him from there! he thought desperately as a coin fell out of his hands. He wasn’t back there. He couldn’t be-

As if from a memory, he felt the hand on his shoulder.

Everything went dark, and everything fell into cards and empty space. Aces and kings and queens and jacks. There he was sliding off the surface. He tried to run, but his legs felt like they were made of concrete, and a fantastic pain was blossoming in his lungs which couldn’t manage to take a breath.

“Liu Hai-?" The feeling was unmistakable. He was back there again._  
_

_ You’re not going to be leaving, my lucky gander, _ Liu Hai sing-songed. _ The House of the Lucky Fortune may be gone, but gods like me have to survive somehow, and your luck is good enough to keep me alive for years to come… surely you understand. And you can’t really leave, after all. _

“I’m not gonna stay here forever!” he shouted back.

_ What? Like you were doing anything different with yourself anyways, besides just playing these games. And besides, I know that you asked for his help. You called him and reached out for a reason, like you can make up for everything._

Shit. He wasn’t supposed to know.

_ I’ll trap him yet, just the same as I did you. It’s not too much trouble. So if I were you, when he comes into your life again, I’d be on my best behavior. Don’t try to tell him. Or he’ll be joining you. Then again, _ and Liu Hai wore the most terrible grin, _ that is what you want, isn’t it? _

Red and black and blue and gold, everything dissolved and a pain beyond measure filled his head-

* * *

“Sir? Sir, are you all right?”

Gladstone opened his eyes. The ceiling seemed like it was a hundred feet up; everyone looked fuzzy and strange. Someone was towering over him. A bright light was coming from behind him, far up, and a voice was singing at him.

_ “Sorry, no more spins. Your luck will be better next turn!” _ The recording paused before replaying. _ “Sorry, no more spins. Your luck will be better next turn! … Sorry, no more spins. Your luck will be better-” _

"Where is Liu Hai?!" he half-shouted.

“Sir, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh..." He took a few deep breaths. "Just a nightmare, then?"

"Are you all right?” asked an employee with a shrill voice, reaching a hand. He got up, feeling cold tears slide down his cheeks. He wiped his face with the tissue the employee provided. "Do I need to call for medical help?"

“I’m fine,” he murmured. “What time is it?”

“1:17.”

"AM or PM?"

They gazed at him, their hazel eyes betraying too much sympathy. "PM, sir."

“Damn it, I’m late! Thank you- I’ve got to go. Any more…” He checked the machine. No more spins, no change to collect. He must have bet it all.

If there was any more on the machine, he’d probably keep on going, but now that there was a lapse in concentration, he could focus on the important thing. Donald was there, and he’d get to talk to him… 

_ You’ll just bring him down to your level, _ Liu Hai had told him when he first tried to break his chains. _ He’ll be just as broken as you are. If you want him, if you really want him, you’ll understand why we can’t have him coming around and letting you go. _

Well… maybe _ this _wasn’t the best thing to give him, thought Gladstone as he glanced around the rows of slot machines and various games. Everything here had lost its charm. The man in the blue shirt claimed the machine he had been on, presumably hoping that he’d get the same lucky streak that Gladstone had got.

Regardless, they were supposed to go to the theatre. He placed a call as he walked out.

“Don? Hey, it’s me. Look, I might be a half-hour late… What did you want to see?”

He got his answer. A very specific play, indeed, and one that Gladstone had been looking forward to seeing.

“Fantastic. I’ll…”

_ He’ll be hurt, just like you are. And you don’t want that, do you? _

“I’ll be right there,” he said halfheartedly before hanging up.

"Sir?" the same shrill-voiced employee called out as they ran after him. "Sir, you forgot this."

Gladstone glanced down at what they had given him. His heart broke; his head was full of dizzy hopes.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Isn't it yours?"

"It is," he whispered, "and that's the problem. I didn't think that I had brought it." Gladstone gazed at the amalgam of sapphire and silver in his hand. There was no mistaking it. It was the same one he had bought so long ago, that he had lost just the night before, and here it was again. By great Fortuna, this wasn't some simple trick or coincidence.

No, it was a message.

"Sir, I assure you, I found the ring by the machine you were playing on." They stared at him with jade eyes, understanding and yet not understanding. He got the sickening feeling that they didn't realize exactly what was happening, as if in a daze that was _probably _just from working so long in this place. "If you need to pawn it, there's a shop right across... and given how well you were doing, I'm sure you could keep on doing just as well."

_Try your luck!_ sang the machine, in a voice a bit more different, a bit more familiar. He wanted to take another step in, if he was perfectly honest, and try his luck some more, but now he had a meeting to get to.

"I can't, it's... it's not the kind of thing I can do that to."

"It looks pretty important."

"You're right," he said as he slipped it into his pocket. "It was. Thank you."

They nodded, slipping back into the casino. When he ran after them to try to give them a tip or a token of gratitude or just something more substantial than 'thank you', they had already disappeared. It took more effort than Gladstone would have liked to leave behind the machines and get ready by the agreed-upon time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot appears, and the ring re-appears.
> 
> Thank you to the people who commented, kudos-ed, or just plain read this! It means so much to me. I could not update for a while due to academic and mental health reasons, but the good news is that I'm in a much more stable place and will have more time to write next semester, so updates should be coming much more reliably. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I loved writing it.
> 
> For those of you who may not have heard of Fortuna, she's a goddess of fortune and destiny, called 'Tyche' in Ancient Greek. In the Disney Duck universe, specifically many Italian comics, she is said to be in love with Gladstone, as a reason why he has so much good luck so consistently. I have my own reason why; while she isn't in love with our favorite gander, and his luck is not under her control, Fortuna's still around.


End file.
